


Guilt

by chansonduvide



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:13:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22250872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chansonduvide/pseuds/chansonduvide
Summary: Years after the tragedy at the opera, an American reporter has come to Paris to discover the truth of the incident.  But is her courage and ambition a match for the Opera Ghost's cunning and distrust?
Relationships: Erik/Christine (mentioned), Erik/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 5





	Guilt

"I suppose you're looking for me," a voice, weary and reluctant, rang out into the darkened room. A sharp line of light cut across the expanse, illuminating the owner of the voice, sitting in an overstuffed chair with too many pillows propping her thin form up. 

"Vicomtesse?" a distinctly feminine voice called out from a distinctly feminine silhouette in the doorway.

Christine sighed from her chair, shifting slightly to arrange herself into a more upright position. "I should have known you'd find me eventually, Mademoiselle." 

The girl stepped fully into the room, closing the door behind her. Brazenly, she moved to a nearby lamp, lighting it as if she had every right to rearrange the other woman’s living quarters. Christine decided instantly that she didn’t care for this young visitor.

"I don't know what you mean, Madame," the girl said simply, hands laced in front of her, the picture of innocence. 

"There’s no need to play coy with me,” Christine replied, only managing to keep her tone even because of the years she’d spent in Parisian society doing just that, 

“Your… pointed questions in regards to my past have caught the attention of every circle in Paris. Even I have been unable to distance myself enough from that world to be ignorant of them. And believe me, I’ve tried.”

“And yet,” the girl replied, still irritatingly confident, “you permitted me to enter your home, despite what you’d heard.” She paused just long enough for Christine to think she’d finished before adding, “Is it too bold, I wonder, to presume it was because of what you heard of me that you did so?”

A potent mix of irritation, fear, and embarrassment brought color to the premature pallor of Christine’s cheeks. How dare she presume anything of the sort? It was preposterous, as was everything about this upstart’s visit. She’d known Americans had never had the refinement of their European cousins, but this was an entirely new lack of decorum.

So why wasn’t she sending her away?

Christine had to hold back another sigh and, pointedly looking at her visitor from the corner of her eye, said, “I suspect, Mademoiselle, that there’s not a single fiber of your being that isn’t too bold.”

She laughed. “A most apt description of a fault I’ve been made well aware of in the past.”

The girl seemed completely comfortable and confident in her own brashness. Just one of many ways Christine saw in her the polar opposite of herself. Though by no means a crone, Christine was well aware that The Incident had cost her much of the youth and warmth she’d once had. The heart that she’d once held out to anyone was now tucked safely away, just as she’d tucked herself away. The girl in front of her couldn’t have been more than a few years younger than herself, but there was a lust for life that made her almost iridescent. Christine wasn’t sure if she could have ever in her adult life laid claim to that sort of light. Innocent she’d been, ruinously so, but never untouched by the cruel sadness of life. Her visitor either hadn’t known or was unbothered by such tragedies as Christine had known since childhood. 

The differences she’d sensed in their dispositions was reflected in their appearances. Though lines traced her face lightly and her curls, perhaps a little less lustrous than they’d once been, were always pulled up and away from her face, Christine was otherwise very much as she’d always been- moon faced, dark haired, and slight. A beautiful doll, finely crafted and undoubtedly valuable, but ultimately a thing whose fate belonged to others.

There was nothing finely crafted about the girl. Beautiful, yes, but striking where Christine was delicate. Her hair, the color of old gold, appeared mostly straight in its sensible bun. She was taller as well, with the indisputable shape of a woman underneath her dress. Though her skin was as pale as Christine’s, a light dusting of unfashionable freckles across her face demonstrated that she had no fear of the sun. And while Christine’s eyes were soft and dark as a doe’s, the girl’s were a sharp, vivid green. If Christine was a doll, the woman in front of her was something out of a Romantic painting- a muse who toyed with those around her, not vice versa.  
Christine realized she’d been silent for too long and refocused her thoughts on their conversation. “What is it you expect to gain from your visit today?”

“Answers to the questions I’m sure you’ve heard before,” she replied simply. “Primarily for my readers back in the States.” A reporter- she should have guessed. 

"Why would you suppose I'd answer any of your questions?" 

The girl smiled again. Christine wasn’t entirely sure she liked it when she smiled. “Why wouldn’t you? Though the memories must be disquieting, you’ve never shrunk from telling the story before.”

Ah yes, the endless repetitions of an acceptable story for the police, reporters, and the society she’d found herself a part of once her engagement to Raoul had been made public. It was a pretty tale, wrapped in a neat little bow, with some aspects of truth to it. If she had to, she could recite her lines again, but as she looked up into the steady gaze of the other woman, she realized her performance may not be strong enough to fool this audience.

“I hardly believe a washed up reiteration of such an old story would be of much interest to a smart, ambitious reporter such as yourself,” Christine said, avoiding a real answer to the girl’s question.

“No, of course,” the girl said in a rush, her excitement almost breaking her control. She had to take a breath to regain it. “But, if you were to tell me the truth, that would be something worth writing.”

Christine tensed, feeling as transparent as old lace. How this one reporter from an ocean away had seen through their story, she wasn’t sure. All she knew now was that she had to put an end to this line of discussion immediately.

“If you’re accusing me of lying, then I don’t see a reason for us to continue this conversation,” she said, putting on the careful disdain of a real vicomtesse and rising,  
“Thank you for your visit.”

For a moment, it seemed that the girl would fight her. She stared, a slight look of disbelief showing on her face before it was swallowed up again by her pride. She nodded, a smile quirked on her lips as she headed to the door.

“I’m sorry to have intruded, then,” she said, pausing just as she reached the door to turn back towards Christine. “It’s alright, you know. To have loved him.”

The words struck her like a blow to the chest, knocking all of the wind out of Christine’s lungs. How could she… How dare she… Did this girl have no sense of propriety? Of shame? Of compassion? There was no way she could have prepared herself for this scenario as there was no scenario in which that statement ought to have been uttered. If the accusation was untrue, then it was libelous. If it was true, then what sort of person could bring themselves to say it?

And why did it feel like every word the girl said was poking a hole in the dam Christine had built around her emotions?

Shoving all of those thoughts back down where they belonged, she pursed her lips, asking in clipped tones, "And who would you be referring to, Mademoiselle?" 

Now the girl seemed truly dumbfounded, as if she couldn’t fathom why Christine wouldn’t want to discuss her feelings, whatever they may be, for the man who had terrorized her for months. Suddenly, in her excitement and confusion, she seemed much younger than Christine had initially assumed.

“Why, the Opera Ghost, of course!” 

“Ah, yes, the Opera Ghost,” she said, swallowing down her feelings. “Nameless, faceless, lifeless, even. Who could bring themselves to love something like that?”

“But he did have a name, didn’t he?” the girl urged, “And you did love him. Or else why did you agree to speak with me at all?”

“You seem quite confident in your knowledge of my story and my character. I doubt anything I have to say will change your mind,” she responded, avoiding her question. In all honesty, she wasn’t sure herself why she’d allowed the girl to visit, knowing what she would want before she’d ever crossed the threshold.

“All I wanted was to understand. You,” the girl said, before pausing for a long moment, “And Erik.”

For the second time since the girl had arrived, Christine felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her own lungs. “Where did you hear that name?” she all but hissed.

The girl studied Christine steadily, obviously unsure whether or not she was comfortable answering that question. Finally, she pulled something from the reticule at her waist. It was a letter- crumpled, water damaged, but heart-wrenchingly familiar. Christine couldn’t help but snatch the paper from her hands and stare at it in disbelief.

She shook it ferociously at the girl, demanding, “Where did you get this?”

The girl avoided her gaze with a look that showed she was, in fact, capable of at least some level of chagrin. “Your friend. The gentleman from Persia?”

Nadir. He’d still had the letter. Which meant he’d never given it to Erik. Which meant…

Oh God. She’d bled her heart and soul out onto those pages. All of her regrets, her thoughts, her pleas for forgiveness and her absolution. All of the treacherous emotions that she’d risked so much in writing down. And he’d never read them.

And almost as horrifying- “I’m assuming you read it.”

If Christine didn’t know any better, she’d think the girl was blushing. “Yes. Believe me- had I known how… intimate the language would be, even I wouldn’t have trespassed.”

“Well, then I’m at an even greater loss as to why you feel the need to speak with me,” she replied, forcing herself to maintain eye contact with the girl. She would not be ashamed by what she’d written- every word of it was true and if her visitor hadn’t liked what she’d read, then she shouldn’t have been nosing around in the private correspondence of others.

“If anything, Vicomtesse,” she said quietly, “It only raised more questions.”

Christine felt her temper continue to rise at those words. “Questions such as what, Mademoiselle? I have no children whose paternity could be in doubt. The man in question had nothing more to give me than what he already had, so there was no reason for me to lie to him. Perhaps you wonder if I can truly love my husband given what you’ve gleaned? But then a bright young woman such as yourself could probably understand why a penniless chorus girl would happily marry a nobleman even in the absence of love.”

“Please, Madame, no,” the girl replied, in such a rush that she’d muddled her French titles, “I would never think something so ugly. I only wondered how a man that evoked such tenderness from you could be hated so strongly by the rest of the world.”

Tenderness. She supposed that was as good a word as any for the feelings she had towards Erik. It was certainly a definition that she was more comfortable with than love. 

After a long moment, the girl finally added, almost as if she thought to stir Christine from her thoughts, “Your words made it very easy to care for him.”

“Care for him?” Christine replied, incredulous, “You imagine that you care for him?” That it’s easy to care for him, a small, quiet voice added in her mind.

“Of course. It has been my intention since the first time I heard about what happened at the opera to tell your story. It wasn’t until I read your letter, though, that I decided to tell his.” She said the words easily, as if it was the most natural thing.

Christine stared at her dumbly. “Tell his story. You mean it’s your intention to interview the Phantom of the Opera?”

“Erik, I intend to interview Erik,” she replied and, upon noticing Christine’s still stunned face, added, “The story would hardly be complete without it.”

“I assure you, Mademoiselle, you’ll be hard pressed to interview one without the other. All the things that Erik has been to all the people who have ever known him- ghost, teacher, assassin, angel- they’re all a part of him. One cannot go on without the other.”

“All the same-“

"And would you truly care to speak to him, knowing that he is as capable of murder as he is of love? Possibly more so as it was a language taught to him much earlier in life?” she pushed on.

"I am completely aware of that and prepared for a… non-traditional interview,” the girl replied, displaying that possibly unearned confidence again, “But that is, of course, part of the fascination. That a man, a murderer, who’d never been given a reason to change could find the basic human compassion to free the only man who came between him and the only person he’d deemed worthy of his love is… inspirational.”

Christine narrowed her eyes and the girl’s implication. “If it’s an inspirational piece you’re looking to write, I’d suggest you look elsewhere.”

"But-" 

"Mademoiselle, you said before that you cared for him. If that's true, I suggest you give up your ghost hunt." 

Christine turned away to face the dark side of the room. She should have known better than to expect her visitor to have the manners to leave. 

"All I wanted was to understand. I admit I wanted to help myself by sharing an angle that had never before been covered. But I had hoped to do it by humanizing all sides of the story. I had hoped to help you. And him.” 

"I won't tell you his story, it's not mine to tell."Christine could practically feel the girl’s despondence as she heard her move for the door. "But I won't deprive him of the chance to tell it. He deserves that much." He deserves some care, even from this silly creature.

She could almost feel the girl glowing as she turned back to Christine. "That's wonderful! When can I speak-"

"Ginny! Ginny, Monsieur le Vicomte is requesting our departure,” a young man’s voice called through the door in English. The girl bit her lip at both the rudeness of her companion and the question left hanging in the air. 

Christine cleared her throat, pulling the girl out of her discomfort."I'm not so fool as to introduce you. But if you return tomorrow, I can teach you to catch his attention,  
God save you." God save me. "The actual introduction will be your own doing.”

"I can be satisfied with that." The girl smiled confidently at her. 

After briefly placing a hand on Christine's, she swiftly exited the room, leading her companion to the exit. As Christine sat back, she heard her murmur a quick thanks to the Vicomte before exiting the de Chagny home. 

Christine sat in her room, mulling over the promise she had just made, a great fear falling over her as she did so. Fear that she’d made yet another in a long line of ill-fated decisions. Fear that the girl was merely a better actress than the average reporter and was only looking for a good story after all. Fear that the bravado she’d presented was false and she’d end up running from Erik just as everyone else had. Fear that, even with all the training Christine could give her, the girl would slip up and find herself at the end of a lasso. She could only hope the girl was as brave as she thought herself.

**Author's Note:**

> 1/14/20  
> Y'all. If you're looking for scheduled posts, I am not your girl. But I just... I love Phantom so much. Like, probably too much. Like, when I found out I was too tall to ever play Christine in the musical, I redirected my entire life and am now a professional opera singer who is *still* actively waiting to have some creepy guy in a mask steal me away. I started writing this story in sixth grade (it's technically possible that some of you may have read a draft of this on ff.net many moons ago...) and am now an Internet Old, but it's still not finished. Well, it's finished in my head, but I am Bad at Finishing TM. Still, if this brings anyone any joy, if it inspires anyone else's fics the way so many other authors inspired me back in the day, then it's worth posting. So... here we go, first posted fic in over ten years...


End file.
